


of understanding

by entremelement



Series: at last [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Laundry, M/M, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:22:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27150037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entremelement/pseuds/entremelement
Summary: Love, lemons, and everything in between.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Series: at last [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1981825
Comments: 24
Kudos: 73





	of understanding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allicanseeispink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allicanseeispink/gifts).



> [Lars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allicanseeispink) made me do it. This is the result of an incredibly short conversation: "hey I wanna try to write a fic in one sitting" / "oh, let's do it!" Please do read hers as well. It's [folding clothes, i think of folding you into my life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27148510). We set deadlines for this, honestly, and I am very apologetically late. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy! It's my _actual_ first time to write something so fluffy and.. quiet. <3

If there's any kind of magic in this world, it must be in the attempt of understanding someone sharing something. I know, it's almost impossible to succeed, but who cares, really? The answer must be in the attempt.

\--Julie Delpy (Before Sunrise [1995])

* * *

The Cruiser smells like a fresh batch of harvested lemons now, a bit earthy for Bokuto’s taste, but no less wonderful. He imagines the dimples on its thick skin, and the way Akaashi had taught him how to pick fresh, juicy ones. When its skin is rough and rubbery when lightly squeezed or rolled on a flat surface, it would be too dry. The perfect lemon is one that is palpable under its skin, one that, if squeezed hard enough (and he made sure he didn’t), it would burst open into a citrusy mess.

Bokuto’s imagination gets the best of him when he remembers that there are no actual lemons in tow. Just his new car freshener, and the complete lack of cigarette smoke. The dry, burnt tobacco smell. The kind that sticks to felt sheets beneath his feet. That was ancient history now. He focuses on the road ahead. 

He doesn’t look at it, but its scent mingles with the imagined citrus. This is its source: behind him, with the seats folded flat, heaps of newly-laundered clothes in colorful plastic baskets. No other person. It tickles his nose, the strong laundry detergent scent and the subtle hint of lemons.

His car stereo’s playing a song from his Bluetooth-connected phone. Something Portuguese today. Shoyo had been listening to a ton of it as soon as he got back from Brazil. Not wanting to be left behind on anything, he took a gander at Shoyo’s playlist and asked for the link posthaste. The trapped light in his eyes when he showed Bokuto his 20-song playlist was all the motivation he needed to hear the other side of the world through songs. Shoyo scrolled to one of his favorites and they listened to it in the locker rooms one late practice day.

 _Meu bem, quero ser seu namorado._

Bokuto heaves out a laugh. He was understanding something with this tune, something Shoyo refused to flat-out say. There was another side to it, not just the heady flow of sung Portuguese. It’s warm, something so simple, too. Like coming home to Akaashi. 

The stoplight turns green and it takes all of him not to floor it. Home can have him safe and in one piece. For now, he listens as the song crossfades into a peppy, old beat with spoon percussions and trumpets.

* * *

“I want to quit, Koutarou.” 

It was not unlike Akaashi to be prickly-cryptic, and so Bokuto gives him an answering smile and two raised eyebrows. He was curious, but not worried. Akaashi just walked in from the veranda, brandishing a ceramic bowl full of yellowing marks, wiped clean of all its ashy remnants. 

Akaashi watches the expression stick, and he laughs into the back of his free hand quietly. 

“You’re not worried,” Akaashi notes, padding barefoot towards Bokuto, setting the bowl on the coffee table along the way.

“I am not,” he answers back, shifting a little bit to the side to give him space on their 2 year old, quaint tweed-covered sofa. There was excitement in him, roused from its sleep. Akaashi only makes sweeping declarations when he’s about to announce something big.

Akaashi watches as Bokuto’s expression remains unchanged before he sets himself down on the sofa. He takes both of Bokuto’s hands in his and he softly lays them on his lap, still clasping them. 

“I’m quitting smoking, finally.” 

So that necessitates the enigmatic phrasing. This _is_ big, kicking a habit. A habit formed over time, a habit that quite literally clung to every fiber of his being, and his clothes. 

“What are you going to do when you’re stressed, then?” Bokuto plucks some of his fingers out of Akaashi’s gentle grasp and rubs circles on the back of his hand. A tinge of pink creeps on Akaashi’s face before he beams, his next words carrying a lightness only he could bring about. 

“I have you, and if I start coughing because of withdrawals, you can give me taps on the back, like how I taught you when Inu-san gets asthma attacks.”

The sun is round and full outside their apartment, and its light slowly creeps onto the empty veranda, robbed of smoke and cigarette butts. Bokuto does not cease rubbing soothing circles on Akaashi’s knuckles, though they have evolved into different shapes now. He slowly follows the ridges on Akaashi’s knuckles with his thumb. 

Bokuto tries to even his knuckles with touch. “Yeah, I _have_ gotten so good at that. The rest of the team wants me to tap their backs, too.” 

They talk about repurposing the ceramic. Akaashi suggests succulents, but Bokuto watches the railing cast shadows that crawl into their apartment instead, making lines on the floorboards. It is never uttered, but Bokuto thinks of something better. 

* * *

Bokuto kneels before the thin _shoji_ screens and places his closed, trembling fists on his thighs. Akaashi, beside him, opens the screen to reveal an _irori_ , the sunken hearth burning with the smell of carbon and wood. Seated comfortably around it are Akaashi’s parents, beckoning him with radiant smiles. 

Akaashi, likewise kneeled, takes Bokuto’s hand in his, rests it on his thigh. Bokuto hears a language spoken unlike any other, sees it in his parents’ eyes when they bow slightly. He feels his hands get a little less clammy. 

“We’re here. Mom. Dad.” 

* * *

Later, with his legs relaxed and dangling from the _engawa_ , he gazes upwards and finds innumerable stars, gems hanging above him, sewn into the fabric of the night. It has been a long night, longer than any other he swore he’d experienced. 

Akaashi calls out to him from the spruced-up vacancy of the living room, _tatami_ making small marks on his thighs when he lifts them up. He’d prepared the _kotatsu_ early. It was December, then, and the frigid chill lingers. Akaashi slips under the heavy quilt of the _kotatsu_ and smiles. 

Bokuto comes, crawling on his knees, smiling all the way. He purposely leaves the screen open, it’s how Akaashi liked it. Being buried in blankets as the weather is too frigid to walk into. Only, this time, there’s the added bonus of the _kotatsu_ in the comfort of the Akaashi household. He slips his legs in and plays footsie with a tuckered-out Akaashi, kissed by drowsiness, so close to sleep.

“That was nice,” Akaashi begins, lightly pinching Bokuto’s foot with his hallux and pointer toe. “It was nice to see them so happy.”

Bokuto relents and chuckles. “The only thing that makes our parents happy is to see their kids happy, babe.” Out of habit, he uses his big toe to trace along the small bones on Akaashi’s foot. 

“I love you,” Akaashi sleepily replies to nothing in particular, relishing the quiet of the night, with crickets humming in unison. “Thank you.”

The basket of _yuzu_ on the table, their skin wrinkled and intact. The hum of the heater beneath the low table. The moon, present, sewn onto the night-fabric in its nearly-full phase. The distinct sound of the crickets outside, humming a melody only they could hear. The quiet press of lips on another.

“Happy birthday, Keiji. I’m glad I could spend it with you, here.” Bokuto leans back and sees that sleep has swiftly taken Akaashi. He slides under the blanket and prepares to be taken next.

* * *

Akaashi gets home one warm day and shucks his scarf and coat off of him. His lack of foresight got the better of him, expecting a chill in September. He wears a frown that scrunches up his face and almost tugs the rest of his body down. 

He sets his bag down on the coffee table and observes the ceramic he’d quit stubbing cigarette butts in. There were multiple yellowish marks on it, a testament to how nasty a habit smoking was. Some a deeper mustard, and some ochre, from stressful days in which he had to stub the cigarette out harder than usual. 

It’s laughable now, how it had taken over most of his editorial life only to be rid of it only a few months ago. 

Akaashi catches another glint in the white ceramic, something he hadn’t quite seen before. 

It wasn’t hard to perceive, sitting in the bottom of the bowl. It’s round, almost a flat circle drawn into the scorch marks. He bends down to pick it up and sees a ring. Simple, plain, golden. A band. No gemstones, nothing engraved on the inside, it’s just an accessory. 

“Like it?” Bokuto leans against the doorway and crosses his legs, tapping his toes on the floorboards. They make no sound, the denim socks he has on mutes the repetitive motion. 

Akaashi holds it up against the light and inspects it some more. “Koutarou. What is this?” His words, though tinged with curiosity, were monotonous. Had it been any other person, they would have sensed a declarative tone to them.

But Bokuto is not any other person. They talk in a language of their own. Love in their own nuances. “Marry me, Akaashi Keiji.” 

Big, fat tears roll down Akaashi’s cheeks like clockwork. He sets the ring down where he found it and palms his iPhone from his pocket--an old 5s one, one he insisted upon rather than going with Bokuto’s grand declaration of getting him an XS Max. (The conversation that went down: “Kou, I don’t need such a gaudy phone, I only need to reply to tweets and send emails.” “Fine. But we’re paying for it with my card.”)

Joy fills Bokuto’s face when Akaashi, hands shaking, snaps a photo of the bowl first, and then his boyfriend’s face. 

“What’s that for?” Bokuto laughs and slightly bows when he advances towards Akaashi. 

“Of all the joys you’ve brought into my life, this is, by far, the greatest one. I love you, so, so much,” Akaashi weeps into the back of his hand, tears warm. “And yes, of course.”

The next words, though repeated, come resolute. A whispered secret, a quiet love in their very own language. “Of course.”

* * *

Bokuto takes the cotton of his _hakama_ bottoms in between his thumb and forefinger. He rubs the fabric together, in an attempt to quell his nervousness. They’re both before the _shoji_ again, his knees growing more numb with each second they’re on the floorboards.

There’s a _furoshiki_ -wrapped bento on his lap this time, one he’d gotten at the train station. It’s nothing too grand. On a midnight blue background, the cloth has teal and white hydrangeas strewn on it, and it reminds him of a rainy day in Tokyo, in their shared apartment. Reminds him of the soft kisses he’d pressed on Akaashi’s inner wrist, and upwards on his forearm, on his clavicle, then neck to jaw, before finally landing on his lips.

Bokuto always takes his sweet time exploring every stretch of Akaashi’s skin, and he is a cartographer in his own right when he discovers a mole on the slope trailing from neck to shoulder, and another on his inner thigh. It’s something he’s come to enjoy in the tranquil of Akaashi’s undisturbed company. 

He is pulled back to reality when Akaashi whispers, “it’s time,” to him. Once again, Akaashi pulls the screen open and bows slightly. 

It’s the same hearth, the same set of faces, and Bokuto bows before announcing his presence. “I’m so sorry for the intrusion.”

There is a muted chuckle that tears through the silence. _His mom_. Bokuto’s heard the same laugh from Akaashi before. So this is hers, then. 

“Koutarou, you’re so formal. Come in here and give us a hug. You look like you’ve been to _kyudou_ practice. Don’t tell me you still have a bow slung on you somewhere?” 

He tips his head upwards a bit. Akaashi, beside him, is no longer bowing. He reaches out for Bokuto’s hand, firmly clutched into a fist on his thigh, and rubs small circles on the back of it. Bokuto beams at them, strengthened. 

* * *

Konoha swings by their apartment one sunny May, still in viridian scrubs. He apologizes to no one in particular about the intrusion as he sits on the _genkan_ ’s ledge. He leaves his atrocious white Crocs on the floor, its roof coming apart at the seams. Bokuto has made fun of it for the longest time. _Wow, it really does look like a croc when you use it like that, Konoha!_

“You should really get those replaced, you know,” Akaashi calls out from the sofa, unwilling to get up from where he’d lied down on Bokuto’s lap. Bokuto, in turn, chuckles softly. 

Konoha, feigning hurt, gasps. “You lovebirds ought to greet your guests properly.”

He sits down on the floor, pulling the coffee table towards him. The ceramic bowl, inconspicuous as it was, rattles when he does. 

“Ah,” Konoha picks the bowl up from its underside, rubbing a curious thumb on the ceramic. “The infamous bowl, I see. Incredibly unromantic of you, Bokuto-san.”

This time, both of them laugh in unison, a love shared even in the presence of others.

“Well that’s on me to accept such an _unromantic_ proposition, then,” Akaashi remarks and raises his left arm, admiring the golden glint of the band he has on. 

Konoha scoffs before reaching for the remote. 

* * *

Bokuto wakes up one morning with tousled hair, blankets tangled in between his legs and no Akaashi. No note, no text at all. Instead of abruptly sitting up in a panic, he lets the sunlight spilling into the room hit his back. It’s warm enough to coax him back to sleep.

He next awakens with a bespectacled Akaashi next to him, watching him ever so quietly, still in his outside clothes. 

“Hey,” Bokuto yawns in time with the greeting. “Where’d you been all this time?” Akaashi bends down to kiss him and smile into his cheek. 

“Doin’ laundry.” It was true, he smelled of strong _Ariel_ and he imagines their clothes tumbling in the washing machine. 

Bokuto sits up and rubs his nape, raising one eyebrow as he closed his eyes, savoring the remnants of wakelessness. “Did you take the car, at least? Please don’t tell me you hauled our clothes to the laundromat on foot.”

“Oh I did, I put the keys in the bowl,” Akaashi preens, grinning. Bokuto rotates his shoulders and pops his neck in reply. 

“That’s great, baby,” he remarks before falling back into the duvet warmed by sunlight. “I’m up for next laundry day, okay?” 

Akaashi peels his coat off and wraps his arms around Bokuto, now falling so fast into the welcoming arms of comfort and slumber. 

* * *

Akaashi puts his feet up on Bokuto’s lap and lies down on the armrest, occupied. He aimlessly scrolls through Twitter on his phone. Bokuto takes Akaashi’s feet in his hands and soothes all the exhaustion away with two thumbs, starting from the curve of his foot down to the heel.

“Kou, babe, I’m not one to believe Reddit, but there’s something so preposterous on there today,” he rattles, and Bokuto unceasingly massages his left foot as a non-reply. “All queer people have moles on wrists? How ridiculous is that?”

Bokuto cocks his head to the side. “Babe, I have one.”

Incredulous, Akaashi turns to him with eyes wide. “Honestly? Well, I don’t.”

Akaashi’s feet wiggle in discomfort at that fact. Bokuto smooths the curve of his foot, now as a reply. He feels a laugh bubbling out of him, and he is as effervescent as ever. It’s contagious, because within seconds, Akaashi laughs along with him.

“Should I take the ring back? I mean, say it now or forever hold your mole-less wrist peace.”

A pillow finds its way towards Bokuto’s face as Akaashi playfully kicks his thigh.

* * *

Bokuto hauls the basket of laundry up three flights of stairs and into the apartment. Gleefully, he whispers _tadaima_ in the stillness of their apartment and sets the basket down next to the bathroom. He grabs a warm, knit cardigan from the basket and hangs it on his shoulder. The sun was obscured by wispy clouds today, and it casts a faint shadow on their veranda. He makes his way towards the bedroom.

He finds Akaashi, fast asleep, the covers already slid down to his waist. There was an all too-familiar tune playing from their bedroom speakers, and it’s then he knew that Akaashi has perceived the warmth he felt from Shoyo when he arrived from Rio. Bokuto climbs into bed, his knee sinking into the mattress, leaning on his hand carefully before he drapes the cardigan over Akaashi’s sleeping form. He lies on his side and observes the rise and fall of Akaashi’s chest, his slightly parted lips, and the glasses he didn’t bother to remove. 

When he reaches out for the specs, Akaashi is jolted awake. He smiles before turning to Bokuto. 

“You smell like _Ariel_ ,” he quickly notes before giving him a light kiss on the cheek. “ _Okaeri,_ babe.”

Bokuto grins and dips in for a quick kiss on the lips. There it is, in the hush of the apartment, the Cruiser keys in the bowl where old habits died. There it is, smelling like _Ariel_ and none of the cigarette smoke. There it is. 

“Hi.” And there it is, then. In Akaashi’s eyes. Down to the mole on his shoulder. On his mole-less wrist. There it is. This understanding. 

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes:
> 
> 1\. Oh, the Portuguese song playing in the car is [Várias Queixas](https://open.spotify.com/track/5Jc9kRv6MLUQkDTAt7J1ro?si=MGh_qmz_RUCVp5BFQIrKeA) by Gilsons!  
> 2\. The quote is, of course, from the wonderful, wonderful film Before Sunrise (1995) dir. Richard Linklater. It's always in the attempt.
> 
> As per usual, you can find me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/entremelement), screaming about a ton of stuff!


End file.
